the ditch of life

II still planned to get ready. Efforts and use to maintain his fighting dogs. Evidence: After showering, she first, by reflex, spread her kohl at eyelash level. When he caught the reflection of his entire face sent back by the tangerine’s plastic pocket mirror, he liked it. A deep, slightly shimmering black in contrast to the blade blue of his eyes, wow! But immediately he thought of the little dead girl. He wouldn’t like that, of course. His family, even more so. Everything has a moment, you have to know how to put people in their place, not everyone is ready. And the makeup was removed. However, be careful not to insist too much with a cotton ball soaked in micellar water, leaving a bit of black between the lashes.

He tried with all his might to get there before the others, only to get to the chosen corner, in the shadow of the stone pillar, away from the possibility of the worst. But there is nothing to be done. Late, always late. The closer the mandatory hour gets, the more liquid time becomes for him, like slime that slips between his fingers.

The friction of his giant body against his black leather trench coat, black, his color, because he knew how to fight; The most beautiful colors.

The whole village is there. The church is full like an egg. He goes to the parking lot. In black, grouped, organized, behind their bundled hearts, they all seem tiny. An army of ants. Always the same smell when entering poorly ventilated toilets, floating childhood, hours of false regret and nervous prayers to get out. He knows his father and mother in the tenth row to the right, as usual, two mourning opossums, thirsty for intrigue and mourning. He goes to the left.

As usual, in his wake, everyone holds their breath, squinting their weary eyes to face the judgment once more. they close So much so that everywhere there is a rumor about his giant body touching his black leather trench, black, his color, because he knows how to fight; The most beautiful colors, because all colors reside there. Having become a fearsome raven after being taunted, he always forgets what his huge stature, the door to purgatory, his clothes, his translucent white skin glows almost like a vampire, his forehead so wide that it acts as a screen. His eyes are so blue that no one likes to look at them.

It’s only when the falling leather of his jacket makes the sound of gasoline splashing on the fire that he sees them. Otherwise, it is difficult: half of the row in front of him is spinning. A group of boys who have ruined her life since elementary school, all together. Six, support me. All heads turned to him, their dirty grins of unimaginable bullies struggling to contain themselves. Bigger, softer and more miserable than before, but still just as fit, still just as stupid.

A little later, the priest just needs to speak and say the name of the little dead girl so that she starts crying a lot without trying to interrupt the flow. Obviously, before her eyes, six rags are agitated in their sour oil bath. Laughter is one thing for them, it is immunity, but for them laughter is too little from parents on such a day, too young to bury a child. caused anger. He smokes and stares at the line in front of him, his six teenage nightmares side by side, popping like balloons at a fair.

The first notes of Ave Maria. He climbs, higher than usual, under the mass of the sky, and sings as he has never sung anywhere except in the woods behind the pool, with all his voice, which he knows is so divine that he has to stop it. , hide and work in secret, waiting for the moment to be sent to burn the lands of their childhood.